


let us roam the night together

by llassah



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser learns their dance. Ray watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let us roam the night together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omphale23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/gifts).



> This has a lot in common with this poem, Harlem Night Song, by the amazing Langston Hughes, although it isn't a poemfic, I must have been thinking about subconsciously writing this. This was originally written for omphale23, on her birthday

_Harlem Night Song_

 _Come,  
Let us roam the night together  
Singing._

 _I love you._

 _Across  
The Harlem roof-tops  
Moon is shining.  
Night sky is blue.  
Stars are great drops  
Of golden dew._

 _Down the street  
A band is playing._

 _I love you._

 _Come,  
Let us roam the night together  
Singing._

Langston Hughes

 

String quartets, and champagne, and conversations, and British guys with moustaches and Baronets, whatever the fuck a Baronet is. Has to be Canada really. Ray sits back on one of the chairs, and looks out at the mass of people, all doing that stupid networking thing, all talking and impressing each other, not one of them having fun. Fraser’s standing very still and straight, like they’ll all think he’s just one of the wallpaper patterns or something if they don’t see him move. He’s in red, and the wallpaper’s patterned, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Cruel of Thatcher to even make him come; they’ve been bogged down in cases for the past fucking month, the poor guy could use some sleep. Tired and tense, like he doesn’t know whether to explode or collapse. Worry intrudes on his annoyed boredom, but when Fraser catches him looking, he sits even further backing his chair, fishes for a question.

“Frase, do barons and dukes exist? I dunno if they do or if it’s something the British cooked up to fool us.”

His eyes crinkle a little-- as much of a smile as he’s gonna get, under the circumstances- and he looks thoughtful. “As I have sworn fealty to the crown, I don’t think I am able to tell you that.”

“Well, I, uh, guess we’ll give you your fake castles and aristocrats, what with the Fourth of July and 1812 and everything,” he replies, grinning up at him. This time, there’s more of a smile. He’d tell the guy to lighten up at little, but he can completely see why he doesn’t, not here, not with the Ice Queen trying to decide whether to discipline or molest him, and Turnbull getting drunk and even more overemotional. So maybe he drinks enough champagne to put himself over the limit, and maybe he blinks a little slower as the lights are turned on full, and maybe he lets Fraser walk him home without as much grumbling as usual, but if the streetlights weren’t on he’d be able to see the stars, and when he’s not smelling doughnuts and exhaust fumes, he can smell the promise of summer.

“That party sucked. There should’ve been dancing,” he says, three blocks away from the consulate. “I had a friend who was a tap dancer.”

“Congratulations,” Fraser says, voice serious, expression earnest. Ray awards him three points on their imaginary scoreboard.

“No no no, I had a point! A good point, philosophical and intellectual. Something to say.” He turns to him as they’re walking, aware his hand gestures are more expansive than usual. “He had a dance of his own, that he’d dance along the top of walls, on sidewalks, roofs, anything he could get to. Used to put extra beats in as he walked, jump so high I thought one day he’d just keep on going up.”

A jump for emphasis, quick turn and a few shuffling steps. Fraser watches, every step they get away from that stupid party loosening him so he’s parade rest, not rigor mortis.

“Now my dance, well, it’s a two person dance, meant to be done under chandeliers, while the band play on. Maybe it was the wrong dance to do at the time, but heck, it’s still a dance, and I dance it on my own. A person ain’t a person without a dance. Nor’s a party, come to mention it. But at a party, there should have been dancing. So it wasn’t a party. You still with me?”

Hand up to eyebrow, slight frown. “I’m…I’m not entirely sure, Ray.”

Did that mean he got extra points? He awards himself one, just to be fair. “Dancing, Frase. Just dancing. You need a dance, too. Sing like a bird, dance like a log-- ain’t quite butterfly and bee material there, Frase, and don’t tell me bees don’t dance, I’ve got National Geographic and occasional insomnia, and I’ve seen ‘em.”

“You will at least concede that butterflies are not widely known for their singing?”

Back closer to his territory, well, close enough for him to have that tilt to his voice that in a normal person would be a sneer. “You can have the butterflies, Frase.”

“Thank you.”

Past a diner where the waitress is wiping tables, music blaring from a little radio on the counter. She wipes in rhythm, does a few handclaps, the in front of the mirror dance of the unseen. Fraser watches her for a few seconds, expression almost hungry. Wistful- yeah, wistful. “I suppose, by your definition, I’m not a person then,” he says, voice a little quieter, maybe a little sadder than usual. They start walking again.

“Nah, yer a person Frase, but the dance is still…there but not, you know when you haven’t found it but you have it?”

“Latent?”

He clicks his fingers, grins at him. “That’s the word. You have a latent dance. Hidden. ‘Sokay, I know it’s there. We dance together now, in step.”

Fifty yards from his apartment. Fraser’s smiling, eyes soft. Half a yard to the right, and he could kiss him, just like that. He bounces on the balls of his feet a few times, wiggles his fingers, cracks his neck feeling like he’s about to go into the ring.

“Come up. With me. To my apartment.”

A ‘please’ would be too much, too needy, so he imagines he’s said it. Fraser’s tired, almost swaying, and it’s only politeness that stops him from saying no outright. “Come up to my apartment, and let’s dance some more.”

And who says romance is dead? With his face lit by a streetlight, in a coat red as blood under a sky where stars are shining unseen, he nods, and they walk again, in step like they always are.

He stops him in the stairwell, puts his hand on the back of Fraser’s neck, and is gonna go slow, try not to scare the guy but Fraser has other ideas, and his hands are strong and warm on the small of Ray’s back. Slow flies out of the window at about the same time as paying attention to the public indecency laws, and he’s practically overbalancing, bending backwards over the banister, cause man, can he ever kiss.

“Why’d I ever wait?” he pants, as Fraser jumps back at the sound of an apartment door closing a few floors above. Fraser just keeps climbing the stairs, and Ray fleetingly, ridiculously thinks of kisschase before he’s off, running, taking the steps two at a time, half laughing, half gasping. Fraser’s nowhere to be seen when he gets to his door, but once he’s in his apartment, he’s pinned up against the door by a determined Canadian, keys still in his hand. Sneaky guy—- like some sort of kissninja.

“Bedroom?” he asks when he’s able to, trying to focus his eyes, unsteadier than he was with the alcohol, the press of Fraser’s body, the way he’s breathing against his neck, mouth open like he’s trying to say something--

Murmurs against his skin, tripping, skeetering fingers, a leg between his own, dry scratch of serge, wet of tongue and lips, rough of stubble. Ray’s listening with his whole body. “Bedroom?” he asks again, pushing him gently, then looping his fingers into the lanyard, pulling him along, hardly able to believe he’s finally getting to do this, and to the Uniform, too.

Straight to the bed, still unmade from this morning. He makes short work of the jacket, smirking when Fraser looks surprised, remembering the times when he was wearing it when he’d gone through every button, every bit of Velcro, making sure he knew how it came off. His fingers remember well, dancing through the serge, handing Fraser a coathanger when he looks like he’s gonna make a glaze-eyed protest about dumping it on the floor. Fraser does the rest; the Henley, the braces, the pumpkin pants, the boots, the suspenders—-

There go a hundred fantasies right there, all revolving around those suspenders, those calves.

Then boxers. Christ, this is going from idle horny daydreams into the real thing, and he’s acutely aware of how many clothes he’s actually wearing, shrugs off his jacket, is going to make short work of his shirt and jeans when Fraser stops him, unbuttons his jeans one handed as Ray pulls off his t shirt. Warm callused hand, slightly sweaty, on his lower belly, then down, palm on his cock. He gasps, jerks, and Fraser laughs, breathy almost childlike delight in his reactions. He forgot socks today, slides his feet out of his headkickers with only a little flailing, Fraser’s taking his boxers off, then he’s on the bed, naked, and Fraser’s there, gaze intent.

“You sure you want this? I mean, it ain’t exactly a tea dance,” he asks. Feels strange to be the more rational one, but Fraser’s punch-drunk on…on something, so he’s Captain Sensible for the night. Fraser huffs impatiently, runs a hand down his side, rests a thumb in the hollow of Ray’s hipbone, then bends over and nips it, lightly, like Dief at play.

“Of course,” Fraser murmurs, licking around where he’s bitten, making Ray forget what the hell the question was. He puts a hand on the top of Fraser’s head, running the other down the side of his neck to the muscle where neck meets shoulder. Soft skin, almost girlsoft. Fraser moves into his touch sinuously, his motions…looser than usual.

“Good. That’s, uh, that’s good.”

He’s starting to dance, and Ray wants to tell him so but he doesn’t have the words yet, so he cups his cheek, sits up so they can kiss, runs his hands down Fraser’s back and tries to say the stuff he can’t with his fingers, feathering out, kneading, pressing and stroking. Fraser’s breath’s hot, his eyes closed, slight frown puckering his brow, something so private in his arousal that Ray wants to look away. He kisses him instead, groans as Fraser manoeuvres them so they’re lying on their sides, a tangle of legs, cocks touching, kissing, hands splaying out on necks and backs. Ray feels like they’re both existing in a space made for one, moving and shifting against each other, Fraser’s foot flexing against his calf, the play of muscles a counterpoint to the way their cocks are sliding against each other, this sweet mix of gliding and friction.

Fraser likes it when Ray uses his teeth as they kiss, makes helpless noises when he tightens his grip on the back of his neck, moves his hips in counterpoint to Ray’s until he forgets orgasm, concentrates on the dance, coming taking him by surprise, a plunge downwards as he’s flung upwards, holding on to Fraser for dear life, gasping and trembling as Fraser comes apart too, the noise he makes harsh, graceless, raw.

They lie there breathing, forehead to forehead, sweat cooling on their skins, but even with his eyes closed, he can sense Fraser smiling.

“You lied to me,” he begins, in a voice that would be proper and earnest if it didn’t sound so husky.

“Oh?”

“You said there wouldn’t be dancing,” he whispers, one hand tracing Ray’s jaw, gentle. “We danced.”

“Yeah, Frase. Not a tea dance, though.”

A better dance. Their dance. I love you.

He kisses the tip of Fraser’s nose, waits for him to be able to understand that, too.


End file.
